


Non-Breaking Space

by delgaserasca



Category: NCIS, Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The woman does not shake her hand."<br/>Two liars attempt inter-agency co-operation. It goes about as well as you might expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Non-Breaking Space

o promised land, o wicked ground  
build a dream; tear it down  
**natalie merchant, _san andreas fault_**  


 

 

  
**lies/liars.**  
"Do you never tire?"  
"I'm always tired."

This, Ziva thinks, is truth.

 

 

London is cold, colder than Ziva had anticipated. Her father had not warned her it would be like this. This country is bitter, and sharp through and through. She is not certain she can survive in this grey canvas.

Deceit is unclear here. At home deceit is warm like blood, and runs through a person's veins; it is a matter of course. Here, deceit is shady, made up of half-truths, indecipherable, just like the people and their mannerisms.

The woman does not shake her hand.

 

 

It begins like this: relations in the Gulf continue to be a mess. The British are in Kosovo. There are spies and counterspies at every corner. Tali is dead. Namir is dead.

It has been two months since Ziva has heard from Ari, two more since she has spoken to him face-to-face. She does not know where he is, and his absence makes her wary. No news is bad news, and good news is bad news in disguise.

In the meantime, she is reassigned. Ziva's hands are useful; they draw words from blood, and blood from liars. She is not ashamed of what she does. She has saved lives, she has thwarted dozens of planned attacks and suicide bombings. She is doing the work she was born to do.

And yet there are times - fleeting, it's true - but there are times when she takes pause to breathe in the desert air, and she wonders if there is such a thing as peace, or if she will always ache.

She hears it from afar, a game of Chinese whispers, that Ari and her father are not speaking again, that Ari has fled Israel, that there is no stopping him and his futile anger. She does not know what that means, but she understands what it _could_ mean, and she deliberately turns away.

 

 

The woman emerges from the crowd of people, one moment intangible, the next, sharply focused. She stands very straight; Ziva cannot see her face as a whole, only as crisp lines and delineations. She is pale and ghostly. A spectre. A 'spook'.

Ziva is not a spy, not in the conventional sense of the word, nor in that way the Americans seem to toss the phrase around. There is subterfuge in what she does, necessarily so, but she is a soldier. Rare is the occasion when she finds the need to speak. Instead, Ziva listens, she appraises. She does not spy. She does not know what it means to spy. In Israel, everyone is lying. The trick is to lie better, and to see clearly what is - and what is not - true. Here, in this sunless Sheol, the idea is the same, but the practise is something else, something naturally foreign. Ziva feels out of place with her honey-coloured skin and dark hair; she feels exposed.

The woman is cold, an idiom Ziva applies to the entire country both literally and figuratively, and she is a liar, something Ziva recognises even before she opens her mouth to speak. This city is full of shadows and yet, Ziva cannot hide here, and it makes her uncomfortable— the woman looks her straight in the eye. There is no need for her to sweep her gaze up and down, the way Ziva is forced to: she already knows who Ziva is. She is already in control.

"Ros Myers, MI-6."  
"Ziva David, Mossad."  
"I know. You'd better come with me."

 

 

They meet alone three times in all, and then never again. Ziva is not used to having to negotiate for information; rather, she extracts what she wants and discards the detritus. But the rules here are different, much like everything else.

And yet, there is something familiar about Miss Myers, something of her that Ziva has seen before. Ari would like her, Ziva realises, and that should be all the reason she needs to turn and flee. But Ziva is a liar, and she lies even to herself.

 

 

(Ros is a liar, too, but this will only become evident much later, when the lies don't matter any more.)

 

 

A bomb goes off in Tel Aviv; the news is delivered almost nonchalantly, with only a slight softening of eyes. Ziva wonders if she will ever be an outsider to the events that transpire in Israel, or if she will always be there, even in her absence. She wonders what it means to be a foreigner, to live in a world where danger hums on the surface, but never rears its head. If she was born here, would she be so impassive? Would the cold wind freeze her veins?

The people she meets are easily frustrated and always in a hurry. No-one smiles, and eyes follow her wherever she goes. She does not shy from this newfound attention, neither does she welcome it. She answers questions directly and succinctly; she answers them literally, but finds this upsets people more. This is perversely familiar, as though someone has taken her life and inverted it; she can imagine similar conversations taking place in her father's office.

At one juncture, Ros puts a gun to her temple. _Do not lie to me. Don't you dare lie to me._ Ziva doesn't answer; doesn't think there is an answer. She has not lied once. Not yet.

Information is currency, here as much as anywhere else, and Ziva stands her ground. She does not know that her words can hold weight; she does not know that they can stand up to scrutiny. It would be just like her father to send her out in the rain with the wrong language: it would not be the first time. So Ziva stays quiet, she utilises her training, observes the bizarre mechanisms at play. Code words, safe houses, dead drops - new words, new weapons; Ziva is learning the land by hand, by touch.

"This is ridiculous," Ros mutters. She is talking about Ziva, but not to her, as though the cultural barrier is tangible. Ziva has disappeared. She does not trust this woman, nor this city where all is shadow. A person can die here and be swallowed up in concrete and rain— even the earth lies here, red dust in one half, black soil in the next. Ziva does not trust it, not at all; does not trust even herself.

 

 

"You're supposed to be helping us."  
"So let me help."  
The woman bristles visibly. "I won't play games with you."

They are sitting on a bench; it is raining, a fine spray, enough to bite the face, but not to wash it clean. Ziva can feel it collecting on her eyelashes. The grass before them stretches far off towards a tree line. Leaves soil the pathway and beyond, a great wave of rust and decay. Ros keeps her hands in her pockets; she does not turn to look at her.

"What would you have me to do?"  
"Take the offer back to Israel."  
"I am not a politician."

A dog is running through the leaves. It is large and dark, and it burrows into the dirt. Ziva resists the urge to shiver.

"If you ask me a question, I will not lie," she says suddenly. Perhaps it is this country, seeping into her bones; perhaps it is Ari, to whom she has not spoken in a year. Either way, Ziva speaks the truth.

"Why are you here?" Ros snaps.

A good question. Ziva considers it for a moment. "My father sent me." And then— "Why are you?"

The other woman sighs, thaws a little. "I don't know. My father too, I suppose."

 

 

Ros Myers was born in this cruel, unforgiving place where the light does not break through the clouds. Ziva tells her about the desert, the dust and the sun; about Arabian horses breaking the ground with thundering hooves. "I don't have time for this," is all Ros has to say.

 

 

When they part, it is almost incidental, but not accidental. Ziva is taken to an abandoned apartment block. It looks out on an adjacent dance school. She sits in the empty kitchen watching six-year-olds perform amateur ballet. The tap drips inconsistently; paint peels from the walls. The children step and step and bow and turn.

Behind her, the door opens. Heels snap against the off-white tiles; Ziva does not turn to meet her. It may be considered too forward. Ziva's father has called for her to return home; someone else will replace her. Someone more diplomatic, no doubt. Ziva does not mind. Since she has arrived, she and Ros have stopped a handful of attacks, two in London, and three in the east. Ros is deceptively patient; inside she panics too quickly, is easily irritated: Ziva knows better, but does not trust herself to speak. It has been a difficult partnership, she thinks, she might miss it.

"I used to dance. When I was young."  
Ros sighs. "Didn't we all?"

Ziva cannot be certain if this is truth or not. It does not matter either way. When she turns, Ros is gone. They do not meet again.

 

 

**code/coda.**  
Of the occasion, Ros remembers only three things:

One, that the woman refused to answer even basic questions, a trait that had tried Ros' patience severely. Two, that she had ultimately been more useful than Ros had anticipated, and the exchange had been superlatively beneficial. Three, that when brought face-to-face with the business end of a revolver, she had not flinched, had not blinked, had not altered her breath.

Ros does not think of her too often, but when she does, she remembers this trait and remains quietly impressed.

 

 

**end.**   



End file.
